The letters from Baby’s school say it all. They are always addressed to the parent of so-and-so. Never once have I seen them use my name on the envelope.
You can call it losing one’s identity. That’s what happens when one’s responsibility takes precedence over their identity. When you’re known, not by the name you’re parents gave you, but by the name you gave your child.
I call it the baptism of fathers, through progenies. It can be, depending on how a dude looks at it, an albatross around your neck, the biggest pain in the backside or the greatest blessing.
I have found out that being a daddy also means gaining an identity that I previously didn’t have. For instance, nowadays, to many folks I’m simply “Baba Pudd’ng”.
Because there are times I take Pudd’ng to school and pick her up, her classmates and teachers know me. And guess the moniker they know me by? Not my byline, silly, but “Baba Pudd’ng”.
Recently I went scouring the neighbourhood for a young man whom I give odd jobs. I found out from a nearby shopkeeper – a perfect stranger to me - that the young man’s family had since moved.
The next morning, the younker showed up at my doorstep: “The shopkeeper told me you were looking for me.”
It’s a small world. Especially if you have someone who calls you daddy. Someone who’s name is conjoined to yours. Like Baba so-and-so. My mama used to say that anyone who has a child can’t get lost. And to that I must add that anyone who has a child can’t get away with murder.
About four months ago, I was heading home when I decided to stop and buy some greens. It was dusk, and I glimpsed three children huddled inside the kiosk, still in school uniform.
I figured that, after school’s out, the children go to their mother’s kiosk, then they head home together after she closes shop. Which may be better than them being latchkey kids.
As the woman handed me the greens, I heard the children say, almost in unison, “Habari Baba Pudd’ng?”
As I went home, it hit me that I’m being unconsciously monitored by Pudd’ng’s schoolmates and pals. Comes with the territory, man. Once you’re a father, you’re in a fishbowl; like it or not. You may not know it, but the world’s watching. That’s why I pitied the children of a drunken dude who had blacked out in a ditch recently.
I don’t know about baby boys, but I’m learning that girls are particular about their parents’ looks. One school morning Pudd’ng surprised us when she told Tenderoni that she wanted her mother to be taking her to school while dressed to the nines.
“Mom, put your make-up on, and wear high heels to take me to school,” Pudd’ng laid down the fashion law.
“You two girls are my mirrors,” I always tell Tenderoni and Pudd’ng when I sacrifice and buy them clothes.
“Dah-dee? Do you have a leather belt?” the little fashion cop asks on Sunday as we dress for church.
The previous night we’d watched a fashion segment on telly, where the show hostess talked about matching leathers: that is, a man’s shoes should match his belt.
Yeah right. I’m also my two girls’ mirror. No being seen dead inside a ditch, or having fashion faux pas.
In our apartment block, I try to mind my own business. And that’s because, if you’re one who’s always shooting your mouth it’s very easy to break that commandment about loving one’s neighbour.
To stay above “apartment politics”, I never go past “hi”, unless a neighbour’s house has caught fire.
One day, last year, I was surprised when our landlord dropped by unannounced. Because I’m one of the tenants who’s been around for a long time, he asked some neighbours about me, but they swore that there was no one going by that name who lived anywhere in the vicinity.
“Tall guy, slightly built,” he gave them all the specs, but it all came to nought.
Had he asked to see Baba Pudd’ng, they would’ve, even with blindfolds, led him straight to our burglar-proof door.
